


At the Party

by IamBuckVu, paladin_cleric_mage



Series: As I Live And Breathe [4]
Category: The OA (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Drug Use, Drug-Induced Sex, Drugs, Drunk Sex, Drunk Texting, Drunken Confessions, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recreational Drug Use, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-13 16:43:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10517751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamBuckVu/pseuds/IamBuckVu, https://archiveofourown.org/users/paladin_cleric_mage/pseuds/paladin_cleric_mage





	1. Chapter 1

French feels oddly rested. He left the house without using anything to help– a feat that hasn’t been accomplished in months. He’s doing it as a challenge to himself, to see if he can, to see if he still feels the same clean as he does when he’s… on his student athlete grind.

At school he’s finding his coursework easy, though his head isn’t as clear as it usually is. He’s getting through, carefully taking notes, smiling genuinely, shaking hands with the guys he passes in the hall. Even the music in his earbuds seems a bit brighter.

Somewhere in the back of his mind a little voice worries this good feeling will end too soon. He ignores it, determined to stay positive. Hold on to hope.

There’s one major symbol of hope for him. It’s five foot nothing and has a heartbeat.

[Text to: Buck]  
Will I see you at lunch?  
[…]  
I’ve got a few minutes.

Buck types five different corny messages before deleting them. He’s happy. He hasn’t seen French in a few days and he misses him. Finally he settles on a reply and hits send.

[text to: French]  
[selfie of Buck making a zombie face]  
need. brains. eat- err- meet you later!

Then sadness alights on French like a griffon vulture sometime around 8th period. Heavy, hot, with a nine foot wingspan. The melancholy makes him sweat. It makes him nervous, the way it just took him over, a beast waking up to realize he’d slept on the job. He had been having such a good day. What happened?

What did he do wrong?

He has never understood why he continues to feel awful even when he follows the prescribed methods of adults and takes suggestions. If you study your notes for fifteen minutes a night you’ll have a 90% chance of scoring an A on your assessments. If you balance two part time jobs you’ll be able to get more hours. If you keep up with training and win your games and pay the bills and dress clean, smell clean, they’ll never know. They’ll never see it. At times he’s almost naive enough to believe these tips will save him.

But he always ends up here.

Sick with worry, sad. It’s another reason why perking up with Adderall, Ritalin, cocaine makes sense. He needs to take care of things, his brothers, his mother, himself. He needs to look like he has things under control because he does. Everything in his life is under control and he doesn’t need help. Rather, he doesn’t need anyone to know how he is really living.

There are nights he lay awake worrying about what will happen if they find out? Will his brothers be taken away? Will he fight for custody of them, considering he’ll be eighteen in less than a month? Or, what if she dies? That’s one of his biggest fears. Waking up to her having choked on her own vomit or passed away in her sleep. She’s not that bad, but what if he’s lying to himself?

Practice seems daunting. He pushes himself through each lap and drill, laughs when the boys make jokes. They’ve got an away game after school tomorrow. He had to cancel his Friday night shift at Applebee’s to accommodate it. That’s alright, though. He’s working Olive Garden tonight. He always makes good tips. People in this neighborhood appreciate polite, wholesome boys.

Too bad this one’s fantasizing about ways to disappear. The saddest part is how deluded, how blind he is to the causes of his misery. He blames it on not trying hard enough and pushes himself further, mimicking his affluent peers. Fix your attitude. It’s fine. If they can do it, so an you. He never blames it on drugs, drug withdrawal, lack of parenting, poverty. The aching soul sickness that rests inside his chest.

One thought rises, reverberates off his ribs. It seems to come from his gut so he trusts it. He’ll do whatever it takes.

When you get home tonight you need to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

They’ve been planning this trip for ages. Mr. Vu has to travel to Arizona for a conference and he’s bringing Buck & Mrs. Vu along. They even filed paperwork with the school; Buck will be taking a four day weekend.

After school on Thursday, he is hefting his backpack over his shoulder, full of extra assignments and coursework that he needs to get done before returning Tuesday. He hopes to knock it out tonight, maybe even stay up late with TV shows playing on his laptop in the background. It will feel so much better to not have to return to anything to do once they’re back, and Buck knows he’s up for the challenge.

He does have one small regret: he won’t be able to see French all weekend. After he slides into his seat on the bus, he takes out his phone and shoots off a text…

[ text to: French ]  
I’ll be up late tonight. Lots to do. If you have a moment later, I’d love to take a break to text or talk or whatever.

By the time he sees the text it’s 9:30:PM Thursday night. The day has him so worn out he doesn’t feel bad about ignoring his friend. Why, though? Nothing out of the ordinary happened. Just the sadness: it came from nowhere and never left.

The house is quiet aside from the sitcom softly playing in his mother’s room. French knows she isn’t asleep yet because he smells fresh cigarette smoke. Another fear– that she’ll fall asleep smoking one day and his brothers will burn to death. What if it happens tonight, and he sleeps through the alarm? Suffocates on smoke?

Maybe he shouldn’t have taken the pill.

He needed to, though. Desperately. French never gets enough sleep. Well, he did last night. Or he thought so. Now he’s not so sure. The plaguing anxiety, the feeling like he’s never getting over it. Over what? His thoughts, emotions, they don’t add up. Once more he overlooks the fact that today was the one day in thirty he didn’t use a drug.

Until a few minutes ago. Before he brushed his teeth he took one of the sleeping pills Steve gave him a while back. He’s not accustomed to them, meaning sleep will come fast and heavy for once. Dreamless. That’s what he wants. Time, space, turned off. A void where he is free to forget.

He better text Buck before he disappears.

[ Text to: Buck ]  
How’s it going?

Mr. Vu has been in a good mood all day. He loves packing, and this trip is a huge deal for him at work. Mrs. Vu has been busy doing laundry and cleaning the home so it’s spotless when they return. And Buck has been buried in school books, intent on leaving Crestwood behind without anything nagging at him to come back.) (Except he does have a nagging feeling…he feels like he should have told French he was leaving at lunch today. He doesn’t know why he didn’t. It’s not like he was expecting to see French this weekend; it’s not like they made plans. Even so, Buck felt like not telling him would be wronging him somehow.)

When Buck’s phone lights up, he picks it up immediately to see if it’s French, and is instantly relieved when it is.

[ text to: French ]   
(✿◕ ‿◕ฺ) Glad to hear from you. Buried in schoolwork. I forgot to mention: my family is going to Arizona tomorrow. I’ll be gone all weekend.

French is lying on his back now, lazily texting a teammate about a party, waiting for the pill to kick in. French shows up at parties so rarely, and never drinks. He’s always surprised they still invite him. He’s about to text back “Can’t make it Saturday” when Buck’s reply comes in.

// I forgot to mention…//

It’s such a hit, he can barely breathe. The talons of sadness already gripping his shoulders tighten, break skin. The one real friend he has will be gone all weekend. French won’t even see him tomorrow at lunch.

He’s mourning, but it’s stupid. Buck will be back soon. Besides, French has more than enough work to keep him busy this weekend, and it’s not like they had plans. He’ll deal with it, like he deals with everything else.

Shining solid on the outside, crumbling decay within.

[ text to: Buck ]   
Oh.  
[…]  
That’s cool, you get to travel.  
[…]  
Have you ever been there?

Buck feels an odd shift.

No. He’s probably imagining it. He knows French cares about him, tells him things he simply doesn’t admit to other people. French sees him. French enjoys his company.

But then the question enters Buck’s mind: does French need him? He doesn’t know. Probably not. Not the way Buck wants him to. Not the way Buck wants to need him back.

[ text to: French ]   
Thanks. Nope. Never been.  
[…]  
I can text you, if you want. Send you pics. Or whatever.

The prescription medication wasn’t meant for him. It’s not his, not his dose, and the effect is strong. It creeps up his spine and latches onto his brain, pushing his eyelids down as he fights to keep them open. Dopily, French climbs under the covers.

[ text to: Buck ]   
Yeah, I’d like that.  
[…]  
If you’re not busy.

His teammate is texting, asking for a response about the party. French taps out a quick, “Yeah, I’ll be there.” He isn’t sure why, but what does he have to lose?

[ text to: Buck ]   
Will you call me? I want to hear your voice before you go.

The phone rings almost immediately.

"Hi. Hey. Hello." Buck is a little breathless from excitement. French asked him to call, wanted to hear his voice. Knowing he was wanted both excited him and put him at ease.

French is gone. Oxygen has been replaced by the vapors of sleep. He is intoxicated, in a sense, and so close to the other side this almost feels like a dream. "Hey angel." He takes a few heavy breaths, vaguely aware of what he’s said. The light is still on. Clumsily he reaches over, clicks off the small bedside lamp. He sets his glasses down on the table. Smiling. "Talk me to sleep again?" There’s no shame because he can’t feel it. The sadness lifted when the drug kicked in; sleeping pills won’t make you happy, not like other things, but there’s a high that comes from staying awake longer than you’re meant. He’s giddy now. "I’m gonna miss your little face."

Buck could scarcely believe what he was hearing. His skin went flush. He could feel how hot his ears were, how red his cheeks must have been.

The words that tumbled out of French’s mouth were like lines of rope that Buck wanted to grab hold of and follow all the way back to his heart. Buck wanted to bury himself in those words, wanted to feel French say them again and again.

But then he realized French was already falling asleep on the other end of the line. He sounded dopey. He wonderred if the words were spilt clumsily, accidentally, like candy on the floor that was never meant to be eaten. Buck held the words close, anyways, but he couldn’t forgive himself for it. He felt greedy. He felt that he had taken something he was never meant to have.

Angel.

Talk me to sleep.

I’m gonna miss your little face.

Buck decided he didn’t care…he would take the words and hope French would forgive him for overstepping; because, truth be told, Buck wanted to overstep into French more than anything in the world. He just wasn’t sure how to go from “wanting” to “having.”

"I’m here. I’m here and I’ll always be here and I’ll do anything for you." He said the words reflexively, but as the confession tumbled out of his mouth he started to get hot all over again, only this time it was on the inside, a melting warmth pouring out of his heart and washing through his gut. His body was turning into molten feeling. "French, are you asleep?"

No answer. Buck talked slowly, feeling his way through the words.

"You have so much strength and will and perseverance. You see things other people don’t. You see me…like really see me…and you keep looking. And I just can’t figure that out, because I don’t ever want to stop looking at you, either. You are…" Buck laughs, too nervous to go into detail about what he thinks about how French looks even now. Instead, his register drops and his voice is husky as he confesses… "you are a work of art."

Talking feels good. Buck pushes his books to the side, stretches his legs. He is wearing flannel pyjama pants and a his favorite sleep shirt, a loose jersey top with a faded insignia and frayed collar, soft from countless washes and nights of wear. He had taken his binder off ages ago, already brushed his teeth for the night. He curls his toes and smiles when he thinks again about French’s words.

Angel…your little face…

"You would give and give and give of yourself until there was nothing left, and then you’d just keep giving more. And I know you won’t stop. That’s what I love about you. I just want to be there to help hold you together so that you can keep being you."

Buck paused and just held the image of French’s face in his mind. And- sure- he was thinking of skin and bone- but more than that he was thinking of French’s expressions, the soulfulness in his eyes, the sound of his laugh. Even if Buck had been blind, if he had never seen this boy’s face, even if all he’d ever had to go by were the words French spoke as they spent time together, he would still be in love. Inexplicably. Irrefutably. Embarrassingly. Love.

Buck put the phone down, scrambled behind his bed, and took out his ukulele, and he serenaded French for an hour before he picked up the phone again.

"I love you. I’ll miss you. Goodnight."

And he hung up.


	3. Chapter 3

[ voicemail on French's phone ]

"Hey French. I thought I’d leave you a little something. So…here goes… my cover of the song My Favorite Chords by The Weakerthans…"

There is a rustling of bed sheets and then a soft ukulele starts to strum, followed by Buck’s soft voice…

_They’re tearing up streets again._   
_They’re building a new hotel._   
_The Mayor’s out killing kids to keep taxes down,_   
_and me and my anger sit folding a paper bird,_   
_letting the curtains turn to beating wings._   
_Wish I had a socket-set to dismantle this morning._   
_And just one pair of clean socks._   
_And a photo of you._   
_When you get off work tonight,_   
_meet me at the construction site,_   
_and we’ll write some notes to tape to the heavy machines,_   
_like “We hope they treat you well. Hope you don’t work too hard._   
_We hope you get to be happy sometimes.”_   
_Bring your swiss-army knife, and a bottle of something,_   
_and I’ll bring some spraypaint and a new deck of cards._   
_Hey I found the safest place to keep all our tenderness._   
_Keep all our bad ideas. Keep all our hope._   
_It’s here in the smallest bones, the feet and the inner-ear._   
_It’s such an enormous thing to walk and to listen._   
_I’d like to fall asleep to the beat of you breathing_   
_in a room near a truckstop on a highway somewhere._   
_You are a radio. You are an open door._   
_I am a faulty string of blue christmas lights._   
_You swim through frequencies._   
_You let that stranger in, as I’m blinking off and on and off again._   
_We’ve got a lot of time._   
_Or maybe we don’t, but I’d like to think so, so let me pretend._   
_These are my favourite chords._   
_I know you like them too._   
_When I get a new guitar, you can have this one and sing me a lullaby._   
_Sing me the alphabet._   
_Sing me a story I haven’t heard yet._

[ end of voicemail ]


	4. Chapter 4

The alarm infiltrates his dreams like a beam of light through fog. He rouses slowly, groggily. He can hear Carlos, saying something to Adrien. “It’s time to get ready!” It’s time to go.

French is up, pulling folded khakis from a drawer and yanking them on. His belt is on the floor by the dresser; he loops it quickly through and snatches the first button down he sees in the cramped closet. As his fingers fumble with the buttons he calls to the boys. “Go downstairs and eat breakfast, come on!”

He checks his phone, sees he has a voicemail from Buck. There’s no time to listen now. His mother is calling for him. Darting across the hall, he asks what she needs.

“Money. I need to buy a dress. I’m going out tonight.” French looks at her in disbelief. He tells her the money they have has to go to bills, and the boys, who are growing fast and need new clothes more than her. “Oh, my star. What’s a few dollars? I’m sure you’ll earn it back fast enough. You work hard!”

It provokes a rage inside him, this belligerent selfishness. His jaw tightens, fingers curl into fists. He feels words like bile rise, he wants to spill them out, no, projectile vomit them onto her. Make her feel what he feels.

But she’s small, sad, she’s sick. And he doesn’t want to upset her, or go to school in the wake of a fight. So he runs back to his room and grabs his wallet, gives her all the tip money he’s earned this week. Enough for three weeks worth of gas, or two weeks of groceries. He can’t believe she’s doing this again—he’s even more angry with himself for letting her.

Suddenly he’s in the bathroom alone, Altoid’s tin full of dry goods balanced carefully on the ledge of the sink. He sees himself going through familiar motions, but doesn’t feel them. Extracting a pill, folding it into the soft dollar bill he keeps in the tin, crushing it gently between his molars, spilling it into a pretty pile on the porcelain and blowing the entire thing up his nose with the same bill that broke it down.

By the time he gets to school the thought of Buck has been reduced to a pea-sized prick of pressure at the base of his skull. It tells him something’s wrong, but he can’t remember what.

By lunch the intensity of the high has worn off, leaving him jittery and anxious. He’s not hungry, but forces himself down to the cafeteria anyway. As he makes his way to the team, he sees Steve and Jesse at other tables, sees the empty seat where Buck would be.

Five minutes before the bell French makes an excuse to his teammates about why he needs to leave early. He feels better having drank a container of juice and eaten a few fries. It’s not enough, but what he’s about to do will compensate for that.

He dips into the nearest bathroom, dips into the Altoid’s tin again. There’s no reason for him to look at himself, his actions. No reason to care about his own safety. No reason to stop at all.

The racing of his heart is dangerous, painful. He likes it. Something about the discomfort feels right to him, like he deserves punishment for imperfections. Flaws. Faults. They’re all erased right now, mind obliterated. All he hears are cleats, whistles, hard huffs of breath. The drugs have made his focus clean, tight like the head of a pin.

He plays like an animal.

They win the game.

Afterwards, he goes out to eat with the team. They’re all celebrating the win. Even though he knows his body is starving, he can’t feel it. The food he manages to put in makes his teammates happy because they can pretend he’s acting normal. It makes him feel weird.

All he wants is more of what he felt earlier. So awake his skull split apart and his ideas floated into the air over his head, carried him away. Gone in the best way, no worry or fear. No anger, loneliness, or insecurity to plague him. Just purity.

Once he’s home around nine he sees the pictures Buck sent. Arizona looks like a good time.

French smiles to himself, standing near his dresser with the phone plugged in to charge. The smile fades quick, replaced by the sudden and viscous urge to cry. That passes, too, and he’s left empty.

Why?

He thinks about sleep, but it just doesn’t seem right. There’s no way he’s going to sleep well without Buck talking to him. That kid always calms him down. Makes him happy enough to believe he deserves a rest.

Maybe he’ll do a little more. Enough to perk up, clean. It’s not like he’s doing anything until work tomorrow. Then the party after.

No, he doesn’t need that. He can ride it out, chill and listen to music, text Buck about his day. Text Buck back.

He can. He can.

Sleep takes him around four. By then the entire house is spotless, swept but not vacuumed– he didn’t want to wake anyone up. Two loads of laundry are folded on top of the dryer, and a third is in the wash. He’s never felt this good, yet thoroughly haggard. Wasted by his own good potential.

It’s a restless sleep, a nod in and out of consciousness. He hears noises that sound real, but likely came from his subconscious. He sees faces, Buck’s mostly, swimming in and out of focus. Desires and longings and fears he can’t touch in daylight because they would burn his skin.

He’ll have to touch them someday. Until then he can exhaust himself in an attempt to escape the pain that threatens to swallow him whole.

When he wakes up at noon his first cognizant thought is that he doesn’t want to be here.

Then, rubbing his eyes, he checks his phone for texts from Buck. The pictures made him happy last night. They also made him sad, but mostly it was a good feeling. He thinks.

Why can’t he read his own feelings? What is going on in his head? He feels so irregular, yet can’t remember existing any other way.

Those thoughts scatter when he unlocks the phone to see lovely pictures of Arizona. Without thinking he taps out a text.

[ Text to: @Buck ]  
Wish I was there with you.

It’s not even a thought. He does a bump before going into work. One of his boys texts him. Party tonight, don’t forget. He thinks of Buck. Who Buck thinks he is, who he wants to be for him. Buck makes him feel safe, and vice versa.

Well, he isn’t here.

It’s nothing he can control. A feeling that sits on his chest, the self-same vulture that haunted him the day he was sober.

Haunting, like his ribs don’t cage a heart and soul, but a ghost.

On break he has a quiet moment out back with fresh air. The coke high isn’t as intense now and his thoughts are slow enough to listen to. He makes the mistake of exploring what he’s feeling. And what he learns is that he’s missing someone. That someone is Buck, the only true friend he’s allowed himself to have.

It’s not a feeling he’s comfortable or even familiar with; he’s kept himself so well guarded against attachment to people, against intimacy. And isn’t that what he wants with Buck? Is already developing? Yes, it is.

He thinks of sending another text. To say hi. To say I’m thinking of you, I miss you, and it’s so, so strange.

But he can’t. It’s not his heart and soul that are the ghost. It’s Buck, haunting his dreams and thoughts. If he gives in, lets the desire engulf him, what will happen? Where will he go, who will he become? The possibilities are endless, overwhelming.

Instead he texts his teammate:   
//What will there be at this party?//

He gets out of work and texts the boys, tells them he’s on his way.


	5. Chapter 5

[At the party.]

It should be his element. He’s a lax kid, straight A’s, he sniffs coke and Adderrall to stay on his grind. Weekend parties when a teammate’s parents are away should be his jam. But these other boys, and the many girls who tagged along, live in big big houses with parents who can afford au pairs that cook and clean and tend the children so they have time to do the oh-so important things they need to do.

Things. What things? Most of these kids won’t amount to much. Their parents don’t really love them, only had them out of a sense of obligation because that’s what you do. For years that’s what French wanted. The second time his father left he resolved to be a better man. He would take care of everything, everyone. When he grew up he would have financial security, a home, a beautiful wife who he treated as an equal, and children who would never have to question whether or not their parents loved them. Loved each other.

What a bullshit fantasy.

The party’s core is the kitchen, hot and harshly lit, kids swarmed around a keg and bottles of liquor laid out on the granite-topped island. Everyone who’s not on the team pays a five dollar cover. If French drank, he’d be thankful, but he never drinks. Actually, he’s never had a drink. Never wanted to. He had morals, standards, goals.

Thoughts and emotions have knotted up in his chest like a bad kept drawer of necklaces. He’ll never get them figured out. The drugs don’t help, and he’s too stubborn to see it. Too busy telling himself he’s fine even though three truths are gnawing at the sinew, breaking down the structure that holds him up.

1\. If he lets his walls down he will lose all control.

2\. If he loses control he’s a failure.

3\. His walls have been crumbling since the first night he spoke to Buck on the phone.

[At the party]

He’s in a bedroom upstairs with two teammates, rolled dollar bill shoved up his nose. They’re taking turns snorting a crushed Xanax bar. It’s supposed to help him calm down.

“Seriously, French. You need to loosen the fuck up.”

He’s only taken Xanax once or twice before, like on nights before big tests to help him relax and sleep. Using to relax at a party is different. He knows it’s a bad idea. Worse, he made a promise to himself to never do stuff like this.

His phone pings. Another photo from Buck. French has been receiving them all day and looking, and wanting to respond so badly and not letting himself. It must be his pride, chomping at his willingness to let a friend in. He wants to stick to his routine. It’s comfortable that way, it protects him from the damage his own heart would cause if it saw itself in the mirror. The reflection of a boy who can’t breathe.

Fuck his routine, protection. His teammates are right. He needs to step outside his comfort zone and chill, just be a goddamn teenager for once. Besides, Buck knows he’s imperfect and still believes he’s capable of good. Even wilder, Buck believes that French won’t change for the worst. He can have fun at a party, he can text Buck back, and he can wake up and still be himself in the morning.

Can’t he?

The warmth of the drug hits him, erases the fear. Of course he can.

He sits on the foot of the bed and pulls out his phone. As his teammates chat and chuckle, French savors each photo Buck sent. He taps out a reply, no longer worrying about how he sounds.

[Text to @iambuckvu ]

// I’m so glad you’re having fun, it’s beautiful//

The first text, accompanied by lowered inhibitions, brings out a string of short replies.

//Wish you were sending selfies instead//

//Seriously//

//I’m at a party. Can you believe that?//

//It’s okay, but it would be better with you//

//We could sit on the couch and talk about all the wasted space//

He’s smiling, doesn’t even know what he’s saying. The boys call him and he looks up. It’s time to go back down to the party.

It’s time to have his first drink.

...

He stands up too fast, the room spins. There are not-so-soft whispers. He hears them over the grating music. 

Isn’t he one of the kids that stood up and danced? How fucking weird was that?

 

What’s wrong with him, why was he hanging out with them?

I don’t know, but I think he’s gay. That’s why he never drinks. He knows it’ll lower his inhibitions and he’ll beg the team to gang bang him.

No, he’s not gay. I’ll prove it before the night’s over.

You whore!

There’s so much laughter. It’s sickeningly sweet.

...

“Hey, Adam! Come here, we got French wasted!”

“No! No fucking way you got him to drink! I’ve been trying to get him trashed since freshman year!”

“Yeah, what’d you do, drug him?”

“Shh, he does drugs on his own, you freak. But don’t tell him I told you.”

“You’re yelling, he can hear you.”

“Who cares? Give him another shot! I’ve never seen him smile before!“

...

He’s in the bathroom getting sick.

After rinsing his mouth with Listerine he found under the sink, he straightens up. In the mirror looking back is a kid with bloodshot eyes and a runny nose. His cheeks are flushed, he’s sweating. There are hickeys on his neck and chest. The top three buttons on his shirt art undone.

This kid, who is he? What has he done?

French vaguely recognizes this reflection as his own and hates it. It reminds him of his mother.

No. He can’t do this. He’s better than this, he said he would never do this, never be like her, he fucking said it. Yet here he is, vomiting into a toilet in some rich white kid’s house, high off a drug he can’t even feel, thoughts unraveling before him like a spool of thread. The spool itself has a name carved on it, a presence he keeps feeling even though he’s alone. 

He takes the phone out of his pocket.

[Text to: @iambuckvu ]

//Imaorry hou ever belived in me//

When he opens the bathroom door there’s a brown-haired girl standing there. Behind her is a staircase. At the bottom is the front door. It’s open, a few more kids arrived. He thinks he sees @jesseoa. 

“Hey, French?” She’s pretty. Brown skin, long hair, cleavage. And she’s dangling a little baggie of white powder between her thumb an index finger.

“This will help you feel better. Wake you up so you can drink more. Then we can get back to it, you know?”

No, he doesn’t know. The night is blurry, already hard to recall and he gets the sense that it’s not going to be over for hours yet. If this is what being a teenager is, he doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want anything except to not feel this way. 

The memory of Buck talking him to sleep at night floats up through his body like the muffled bass downstairs. Heavy, present, but so damn far.

“Follow me,” she orders.

Numbly, he does, as he taps out another series. Pathetic messages he’ll forget before they’re delivered.

[Text to: @iambuckvu ]

//Why aren’t youjere I need yoj//

//I miss you//

//I saear to god youre mu only fjcking friend//

//I woukd never do this if we 

Were together//

//Youre so much irettyied than her//

He tries that last one again, willing his eyes to focus, careening into the wall.

//You’re so much prettier than her//

It’s the absolute truth, but the reason and the timing are so incredibly wrong.

...

The room is spinning. He can’t see straight. He can’t feel his body. It’s just been touched all over by the mouth of a girl he doesn’t know and isn’t attracted to. But he touched her back, so he must have wanted it. Right?

Downstairs everyone’s shouting, screaming, the music is so loud. The lights are off except for a strobe someone brought. It triggers a response that sends French into the nearest bathroom, where he falls to his knees and vomits again.

Sitting on the floor willing the room to just stay still, he takes out his phone again. This text he means with every fiber of the invisible self he had rightfully caged for years. He deletes and retypes it three times before it reads without error.

//I wish I had died that day.//

No one sees him slip out the front door. 

Even this sick, he’s not stupid enough to drive.

As he stumbles down the walk he loses his balance, falls. The grass is brittle, the pre-dawn air carries the chill of early spring. Where’s his jacket?

It doesn’t matter. A failure like him doesn’t deserve to be warm. He thinks of Buck, who believes in him. Would he believe in French now, struggling to stand up on the front lawn of his teammate’s house? The smell of sweat and vomit hanging off him, skin brushed with someone else’s saliva?

He wants to cry, but he won’t let himself. Enough damage has been done tonight, he needs to leave. Go home.

There’s no way he can go home like this. But there is somewhere he can go, pass out for a few hours until he’s okay enough to drive and crawl into bed without worrying he’ll throw up or be obviously obliterated around his mother. His brothers. His baby brothers.

Standing uneasily, he begins to sway towards the street. The abandoned house isn’t far from here. He’s sure he can find it before freezing. Maybe he’ll throw up a little more on the walk. It might help him feel less like dying.

He won’t realize until tomorrow that he dropped his phone in the yard.


	6. Chapter 6

The still silence of the night amplifies the noise in his head. It’s deafening; twice he stops to kneel and catch his breath. At one point he’s hugging himself, fighting back emotions, memories he’s not sure are real. It makes him crave Buck. He is a safe harbor. French is a sinking ship.

I didn’t tell her to stop, so I must have wanted it.

I touched her back, so I must have wanted it.

I put the straw up his nose, so I must have wanted it.

I inhaled, so I must have wanted it.

Overwhelmed and dizzy, French pukes into the street. In one night he fell prey to his fears, became everything he hated. People witnessed it. They laughed, they gave him more. Real friends wouldn’t do that.

Too bad he only has one. A boy with skin like porcelain, but unbreakable. How the fuck is he so unbreakable? All it took was one hour to destroy the life French spent years creating. An image he failed to uphold. A goal he failed to meet, a person he had known all along he could never be.

What if Buck had been at the party, grinning from the warmth of a drink? Would French have stayed in control, ignored the drugs and the kids who saw getting him fucked up as a challenge? Would French have kissed his body instead?

No. Buck is strong—he wouldn’t have been there. French is weak, he gave in. He doesn’t deserve Buck. Not as a friend or whatever fucked up fantasy French imagines him as. Someone to fall asleep with at night, to love? He knows what the fantasy means, but can’t say it out loud. It’ll change who he thought he was.

But who he thought he was isn’t real. Never will be now, so it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t fucking matter if he misses Buck or thinks the world of him. Some people just aren’t meant to be with others, aren’t meant to be loved, aren’t meant to be safe and happy. Life isn’t meant for everyone and French knows this. Regardless of how much effort he puts in, life will never be meant for him.

The house is in view, dark and cold. He sprints up the hill, gasping for breath and choking on anger. Every few yards he trips. Pavement splits the skin of his palms, sticky with blood and dirt. It hurts. It’s punishment, and he likes it. Exactly what he deserves.

The godforsaken house is nothing now but a symbol of his error. He heads for the garage doors and shoves through the tarp. There’s nothing here but a physical landmark reminding him of the exact point his downfall began. On the cement floor to the right is a stack of dusty two by fours. He hikes one into his hands like a baseball bat, stained at the base with fresh blood.

Glass shatters, beams of wood tremor. He doesn’t care if the whole place crashes down on top of him. Let it. Let broken wood puncture the bone of his skull and sever his brain diagonally, killing him. Let the second story tumble down and crush his ribs and spine to dust, break skin so his innards stick debris together, a bug smashed under a shoe.

He hates himself for ever believing he could be anything other than this.

Scott is tossing and turning in his sleep, his subconscious is torturing him, or trying to tell him something, he doesn’t know. He turns from left to right and back again, not knowing what;s real, not knowing whether he’s alive or dead.

Half alert, Scott hears a smashing sound, like something being banged against a wall. He struggles to escape repose and bolts awake one the hard wooden floor of the abandoned house. There’s clatter all around, like a tornado has come to tear this house up by the roots. There’s someone downstairs and they’re completely destroying this place. This place- his only refuge from the outside, the only place he has right now.

Scott hops up and quickly goes to the stair. He peeks around the corner and sees a kid not older than 18 with a wooden beam, in his hand. He’s swinging it back and forth mindlessly, causing as much damage as possible. He seems to be out of his wits, and an easy opponent to take down if it came to that. he braced himself, and then yelled out loudly.

"HEY KID!!! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!?!?!"

He’s mid-swing when a voice booms behind him. The momentum takes him, cement rising, slamming his hip, elbow, shoulder. The two by four catches his ankle as it thumps away.

French scrambles to sit up, suddenly disoriented. Is this the right house? Why is he here? Why are his hands bleeding? Why he is sweating, out of breath? He hasn’t properly blacked out, but he’s definitely not present. Hasn’t been since the Xanax that relaxed him enough to make the remaining poor decisions possible.

He’s ashamed of himself. Whether this person lives here or not, French has been caught in the act of destroying property that’s not his. The character clause forbids him from engaging in reckless activity like this; it’s another reason he swore to himself he’d never drink, never party. Yet here he is. Jeopardizing everything he cares about, because he knows it can never truly be his.

"I’m sorry."

He repeats it softly as he strains himself to stand. "I was just… I’m leaving now. I’m sorry."

Halfway across the garage he loses his balance again and lands on broken glass. He feels a pinch against his forearm, another below his knee. It hurts, but not as much as the shame. How could he be seen like this? How could he be like this?

In a fresh wave of rage he gets up, rushes at the wall and slams his fist into it, again and again until his knuckles bleed. Then he reels back, gasping for air. Tomorrow his entire body will be a rainbow streak of bruises and dried blood. Tonight he can’t feel it. Tonight he can’t feel anything other than the mental anguish he’s caused himself– that he failed to control.

He just wanted to be alone in the house to destroy the symbol of his downfall. Alone to destroy himself. But this man interrupted him, this stranger who shouldn’t even be here. It reminds him vaguely of Elias, in OA’s house that night. Why was he there? To help? And what of this man? Is he somehow connected, too?

His thoughts are louder than his breathing. Pointedly, he turns to the stranger, no longer holding back the questions.

"What are you doing here? How do you know about this place?" 

Blood trickles down his fingers, beads at the tips. Drips onto cement. French takes a slow careful step toward the stairs, curious. He’s never seen this man before, yet can’t shake the déjà vu. As if they’ve met in a dream, as if he’s seen the cage Scott claims he was kept in, knows the name of the whack job who kept him there.

Because he does.

Gravity pulls his heart through his gut. Afraid he’ll vomit again, he reaches out for the wall and braces himself against it. Stretching out his right hand lights it with pain. He winces and sees for the first time that he’s bleeding.

God, what has he done? He’s afraid of himself, afraid of how much he hates himself. Afraid that the damage done has inflicted more than just one casualty. Buck is strong and solid yet so far away. What will he think when he returns and finds French, a shell wholly gutted of meat? Empty. Aching. Useless, and speaking in tongues of a man he met after midnight in a house they used to know.

"Scott?"

The name lands between them like a grenade. A truth French isn’t ready for. It could tear off his leg, blow a hole through his chest. Too late. The pin has been pulled. It’s between his teeth.

"Do you know a woman named OA?"

The name slips off the boys lips with recognition. He knows OA. He knows her. What the fuck is happening? Is Hap playing some kind of sick game with him? Has he paid these people to fuck with his head?

"Okay kid, who the fuck are you? How do you know who OA is? Who are you working for? Is this Hap? Is he paying you to do this to me? Do you know who that man is? Do you know what he’s done to us? You better start giving me some answers kid. Or else."

He looked incredulously at the boy in front of him. How could this be happening. How could his entire existence be unraveling before him like this? Did he really know OA? Had she been here? Is this why Hap dropped him off here, because this is where she was? He wanted answers, and he wanted them now. He waited for an explanation.

The truth tears through him, a blinding explosion that splinters his bones, wedges shards into his stomach, lungs, eyes. He leans against the wall– he can’t breathe. It isn’t fair. After everything he did to try and prove her right, it was as simple as just believing. The one thing he could never do.

Buck could always do it. The night French folded like paper under the weight of doubt, Buck took home the book of angels. Of course he did. He is one. Selfless, caring, strong. Like OA, who wanted to help Homer, Steve. Always present in spite of the pain delivered unto her from a past she didn’t ask for.

How is it that the people who have survived the most are able to shoulder the heaviest burdens? Are they magnetized to the darkest parts of the human soul? How do they embrace it, rather than run from its ugly reality?

Running is all French has ever known. This whole time he’s been in a race with fate. Running to make money to care for his family, to get the grades he needs for a scholarship, to get out of this place. Never slowing for a moment, accepting his circumstances. Only denying them.

What purpose did it serve, running? Instead of strengthening him, it made him weak. He cannot shoulder his own pain, let alone that of others. Sure, he wanted to prove OA right, but only so he could believe her. Reassure the anxiety that plagued him. Not so he could help. He is nothing but a selfish, frightened boy, unable to uphold the moral code he so badly thought would save him.

OA survived years in isolation, in a cage, with Scott and the others. Upon her release she sought to build, heal, save. Here is a woman capable of forgiveness, seeing the good in others, the inherent strength. French is capable only of superficial kindness, layered costumes designed to mask his true talent: destruction, in the finest and most absolute strength.

OA, Buck, Scott—they are angels.

French is a monster. Exhausted, body and soul broken, thrumming with pain. Once, he fooled himself into believing he could help. In one night he has learned that he will never help anyone. The most he can do is answer Scott’s questions in his slightly sober state. Even that isn’t enough.

"My name is Alfonso Sosa. OA lives in this development. When she came back she asked for help. She was trying to find Homer, get back to you guys. Save you. I’m one of the five people who learned the movements, and I’m not working for anyone. I don’t know Hap, or what he’s doing."

He gulps in air and pushes off the wall, ready to leave.

"I’ll call OA when I get home, let her know where you are. She went to get Homer from Wisconsin, she should be back soon. I’m sorry I can’t help."

The sentiment is genuine, laden with the sorrow of a man who watched his home and everything he built burn to ashes. He gives Scott a nod, the hint of a sad smile, and leaves.

The boy named French ditched. He completely ditched him. What kind of person as this kid? He said he would call OA when he got home and let her know that Scott was in town. Does that mean that OA has a phone that he can reach her from? He also said she had taught him and four other people the five movements. Why did OA do that? What was she trying to get out of it? He had so many more questions he wanted to ask this French person, but he left.

Realizing that he was completely and utterly exhausted, Scott decided to track French down tomorrow at some point and really get some answers out of him- whatever it took. For now, he needed more sleep. It was still dark outside so it must have been early morning. He could just see the tips of the sun rising above the clouds, so sunrise wasn’t too far away. He went back upstairs, laid back down, and shut his eyes. Repose took him quickly.


	7. Chapter 7

Vomit, sweat, blood. It must have helped, because French finds his balance now. Above him are stars like lost dreams set into a black, archaic sky. Buck is under this sky. The ache in his chest reminds him of a beautiful loss. A friend he cannot have, doesn’t deserve. Refuses to hurt.

A friend who will not recognize him anymore.

The lights in his teammate’s house are still on. He doesn’t want to see anyone, but he needs his jacket to get home. Keys, wallet, phone. It takes him a few minutes standing outside in the pale porch light to remember where he threw the jacket earlier that night. Across the arm of a chair in the den, an unused room meant for company. A room French would never understand the need for.

Quietly he enters through the front door, heads immediately to the den on his left. Voices carry from the kitchen, causing him to notice that the music is off, filling the house with laughter and honest words.

“Did you see how messed up he was?”

“Yeah, it was scary.”

“Scary? That shit was hilarious! He’s always so fucking righteous, best guy on the team—“

“He’s a disaster.”

“– I’m just glad he didn’t puke on my floor.”

“I feel bad, like I took advantage of him.”

“What? Dude, you got him high on coke and sucked his cock. If he’s not down with that he’s a fucking fag.”

“If he even remembers it. Wasn’t that his first time drinking?”

“Oh, shit. You’re right. Sorry sugar. He might remember your tits, but he sure as hell won’t remember your face.”

“Adam, shut up!”

French’s body locks up listening. Jaw tight, fists balled around the jacket folded over his arm. There’s no point in acknowledging it; that would require letting them know he’s here. It’s clear they’re not missing him. They aren’t worried. They don’t care. Why should they?

He slips out as he did earlier in the night, only this time he stays on the walk. It’s a dirty thing, learning the truth. Getting in the driver’s seat, he thinks of the character clause, his reputation. OA, the woman he failed to protect, whose truth he failed to prove. Buck, the one true friend he is inevitably going to lose.

Because who would want to be with him now? Reduced to a bleeding vessel, he gave away everything. Driving home half-drunk, mind and body sliced apart. Tears burn the backs of his eyes. He cannot let them out. Doesn’t deserve the catharsis.

Suddenly he’s screaming so hard his eyes snap shut. He beats his sore hands against the steering wheel, stomach tight as he wrings air out of his lungs. Guttural, throat-searing, violent. It hurts, so he screams louder. Harder. Until he swears he tastes blood, and he’s gasping. Until there’s nothing left.

Then he calmly starts the car and drives home in silence.

Like a shadow he lets himself in. Takes off his shoes and jacket at the door. He pads upstairs and heads straight to the bathroom. Undressing, he is careful not to catch his reflection in the mirror, not to acknowledge the crimson stains, the dried blood that cracks across the knuckles of his swollen right hand.

Soap and hot water sting cuts from gravel and glass. He washes his hair, scrubs his body hard, methodically. As if he can wash the marks away. He turns the faucet off and steps out of the shower, wraps a towel around his waist. Collects his clothes from the floor and throws them in the hamper. Returns to his bedroom, pulls on fresh boxers and a clean white tee. Climbs into bed and shuts the light off.

Stares at the ceiling until well after sunrise.

On Sunday French wakes up at noon.  
  
Downstairs his mother sees the broken blood vessels in his eyes and doesn’t need to ask. She berates him. That’s what he gets for drinking so much. He puked so hard he broke himself.  
  
Carlos asks why he’s icing his knuckles while he eats. Adrien says it’s because he got in a fight. French doesn’t deny this, but it’s nauseating to think they admire him for being tough when there’s a good chance bones are broken.  
  
After breakfast he goes inside his jacket pockets, looking for for his phone. It’s missing, replaced by a bag of pills he doesn’t remember buying. A variety blend, some of which he’s never tried.  
  
Throughout this Buck is there. He is the weight in French’s stomach, the tightness in his chest. He is the pain that blooms with bruises, the scabs from sharp glass. Buck hides in every ounce of shame, every fearful thought. And French has plenty.  
  
The idea of going to school tomorrow makes him sweat. Walking through the halls, pretending he isn’t changed, trailing the scent of shame like a poison. If Adam hasn’t already told the school, the simple sight of him will make it known. French is a fucking disaster.  
  
But the shame of tomorrow will pale in comparison to how sick he will feel facing Buck. The boy who cares enough to talk him to sleep, send pictures, make him feel safe.  
  
Last weekend he said French makes him feel safe, too. Will he still feel safe when he sees French like this? Even an outfit carefully planned to hide the marks will not hide the truth from him. Unlike the others who egged him on, Buck cares. Too much. Seeing French like this will upset him.  
  
He’s glad Buck won’t be at school tomorrow. It gives him time to figure out how to hide the truth. Brush his mutilated surface until it’s shiny clean, until the scream he sucked back in can’t be heard banging against the prison bars of his ribs. Until he’s strong enough to be who he should be for Buck: someone solid.  
  
Yet his core aches with a different desire. He wants nothing more than to drag his broken body to Buck’s shore and collapse into safe arms, lay his head against a chest that houses a warmly beating heart.  
  
Why is he infatuated? Why does he think of Buck the way he would think of a girl? Phone calls at night, drunk texts missing him, wanting to feel their bodies fused together at the bone? It must be his mind tricking him, thinking of Buck as what his biological sex might suggest. But he’s a boy, and French can’t think about him that way.  
  
The memory of Buck is sacred. So pure it hurts.  
  
French is high within the hour.


End file.
